


Little Talks

by goodmenfall



Category: Privates (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmenfall/pseuds/goodmenfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>White-Bowne looks up in surprise from the boot he’s poring over as Keenan sits down alongside him, (more or less accidentally) nudging his shoulder as he does so. He returns to examining the shine on the boot, his expression carefully neutral.</p><p>“Come to gloat?” he asks, aiming for unruffled but suspecting he comes off more priggish. <i> Fuck.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Talks

**Author's Note:**

> This began life as a 500 word birthday present and then it took on a life of its own. I hope you like it Hannah, and happy birthday, bb. I love you :3

_A man should not strive to eliminate his complexes but to get into accord with them: they are legitimately what directs his conduct in the world_ \- Sigmund Freud

  


_1960_  


White-Bowne looks up in surprise from the boot he’s poring over as Keenan sits down alongside him, (more or less accidentally) nudging his shoulder as he does so. He returns to examining the shine on the boot, his expression carefully neutral.

“Come to gloat?” he asks, aiming for unruffled but suspecting he comes off more priggish. _Fuck._

Keenan leans across him (again, more or less by accident) and picks up one of the dirty boots that are piled up alongside White-Bowne. Keenan gestures to him to pass him a shoe brush with a nod of his head and grins toothily at the doubtful expression on White-Bowne’s face. 

White-Bowne decides that smiling suits him. Very much. He hands the waiting man a brush with a raised eyebrow and returns to his polishing. “What are you doing, lentil boy? I lost the bet, remember. You should be out skinny dipping again. Isn’t that what you all got up to on our last leave?” 

Keenan huffs out a laugh and attacks the boot with gusto, stubbornly silent. White-Bowne can’t help noticing the way his hair bounces with every scrub and he forces himself to look out of the window. 

At last Keenan replies, his husky, lightly accented voice at odds with White-Bowne’s cultivated drawl. “You really did lose, didn’t you Tory boy. Looks like they were after a candidate who could stand on his own merits, rather than throwing Daddy’s name about.”

White-Bowne smirks as he carefully buffs a heel. “Actually, my dear boy, they informed me that they would like me to stand at the next Henley by-election when the incumbent - some doddery old duffer I expect - retires in three years. It’s a safe Tory seat, so I’d be an absolute shoo-in, of course. They said it would be a shame to waste me on such a sure-fire Labour constituency as this one, what with my impeccable connections in the cabinet. Rothman shouldn’t do too much harm around here, but let’s face it, Keenan, he’s not exactly going to set this constituency alight, is he?”

Keenan rubs at his temple with the heel of his hand in consternation. White-Bowne doesn’t bother to tell him that he’s left a streak of boot polish behind. He thinks it’s rather becoming. 

“So.” Keenan gesticulates with a rather hefty size 11 boot for emphasis. “Let me get this straight.” He turns to look White-Bowne square in the face, and White-Bowne can’t help staring at the spots of livid colour on Keenan’s cheekbones.“You didn’t actually lose at all really. I mean, you lost the battle” - another swipe of the boot to take in the muddy pile in front of them - “but you’re going to win the war. Bloody hell, you’re a little shit, aren’t you?” Keenan throws down the half finished boot, closely followed by the brush, which skitters under Lomax’s bed, coming to a stop next to a dog-eared copy of Crime and Punishment, and moves to get to his feet.

White-Bowne puts a hand on his arm before even he knows it’s going to happen, and he flinches as Keenan starts to shrug him off. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, tightening the grip slightly. “Please.” Keenan has got as far as his knees and White-Bowne is forced to turn his head at an awkward angle to look at him. “I don’t...it would be...look, just _don’t?_ ”

Keenan pulls his arm away but remains on his knees. “Don’t what?” he says shortly. “What the hell is wrong with you, White Bread?”

White-Bowne flushes at the open use of the nickname (he knows they use it behind his back; he’s too flustered to reproach Keenan for it right now) and picks at a shoelace. “How do you do it?” he asks miserably. “People seem to _like_ you, Keenan.”

Keenan’s shocked laughter explodes in the hollow quiet of the barrack and White-Bowne slithers to his feet and stumbles away, a little surprised to notice that he’s trembling. He sits down on the nearest bunk heavily (Hoy’s he notices, with a grimace) shooting Keenan a bleak look. “If you tell anyone about this...” he catches the cynical look on Keenan’s face and trails off with a rueful smile.

“Let me guess, you’ll make my life hell? Read out my diary to everyone, maybe?” Keenan takes out a battered packet of Woodbines and offers one to White-Bowne. He takes the cigarette gratefully and Keenan lights it for him, watching him closely as he takes a deep inhale. Keenan sits facing him, hands hanging loosely between his knees, cigarette burning away unsmoked. 

“I saw you, you know,” Keenan says at last. “With Wratten. The way you cared for him when he collapsed during the gas attack training.” It sounds almost like an accusation and White-Bowne’s mouth twists in acknowledgement. He stubs out the cigarette on the bed frame and stares past Keenan, nodding fractionally. “You were great with him. Really.” Keenan’s voice is low and White-Bowne meets his eyes, wondering if he might scrounge another cigarette; he hasn’t felt this nervous since the last time he spoke to his father. The packet lands alongside him on the bunk and he jumps a little, caught off guard by Keenan’s apparent ability to read his thoughts. 

“You looked like you needed another one,” Keenan smiles, tossing him the lighter. “No, you keep them, my lungs are fucked enough as it is.” 

White-Bowne settles his lean frame into the bunk, head pillowed on the arm he has slung behind him. Staring up at the ceiling, he blows smoke rings and then laughs without humour. “Do you know what my father said to me the morning we left?” Keenan remains silent, watchful, and White-Bowne turns his head to look at him. “He told me not to be too much of an embarrassment to the family. Inspirational, don’t you think?” His tone is deliberately self mocking, but he doesn’t quite hide the bitterness in his voice, and Keenan leans forward, eyes averted to allow White-Bowne the time to collect himself. “My father took me to the pub the night before we left,” Keenan says quietly. “Made a speech in our local. He stood on a chair and everything; told them I was going to make him proud. Next thing you know I’m in the brig. Poor Dad.” 

White-Bowne knows it’s an attempt to lighten the mood and he huffs out a short laugh, playing along. “I’m sorry,” he says through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “The diary, I mean. That was appalling of me. And about your sister,” he adds, his gaze returning to the ceiling. Fucking Hobbs.”

Keenan stretches out on the bunk, lying on his front. “He’s not a bad bloke,” he says thoughtfully. “He wanted to do the right thing, as it turns out. Wish I'd found that out before I got myself thrown in the brig though. I swear Sergeant Butcher thinks I'm a head-case.” White-Bowne studies Keenan, unsure how to respond, and then Keenan is laughing, his head buried in the crook of his arms. Only White-Bowne isn’t sure if he’s laughing any more, and he closes his eyes, uncertain of what to do. He sits up on the bunk but is reluctant to move any closer. “Keenan?” he says, agitation shredding his voice. “Hey? Are you alright?”

Keenan nods, but his whole body is shaking, and White-Bowne cautiously moves to sit alongside him. His hand hovers over the back of Keenan’s neck as he makes gentle shushing noises. He’s really not good at this at all, and not for the first time, he wonders what it must be like. To be good at something, that is. His hand drops to his side and he gets up to wander over to the window, hands in pockets, teeth worrying his bottom lip.

He hears Keenan sit up, senses that he’s wiping his eyes. “I’ve changed my mind,” Keenan sniffs, his voice nasal from crying. “Pass us a ciggie, will you? ”He pushes himself to his feet and joins White-Bowne at the window. White-Bowne lights two and hands one to Keenan with a grim smile. “Sorry about that,” Keenan says, staring out at nothing, thoughts elsewhere. “It’s just-”

“It’s alright, Keenan. My sister’s still at the gymkhanas and jelly stage, she drives me round the bend really, but it would kill me if anything happened to her. She’s all I’ve got, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, horsey stuff. Jumping over fences, that sort of thing.”

Keenan gives him an infuriated look. “For God’s sake don’t be so thick, we do have horses in Yorkshire. And anyway they don’t do jumping in gymkhanas. Sister, remember? But that’s not what I was talking about.”

White-Bowne leans against the window frame, resting his forehead against the cool glass. “Can we not talk about this now, Keenan.”

“Not talk about what? The fact that your father has done such a number on you that the first thing you did when you met us lads was alienate us?” White-Bowne jerks upright and Keenan places a mollifying hand on his shoulder, his expression carefully sympathetic. “That you figured it would be safer to give us all a bloody obvious reason to dislike you, rather than risk us despising you for who you really are?” His thumb is absently tracing a light pattern on White-Bowne’s collarbone and their eyes lock for a moment. It’s White-Bowne who looks away first, too exposed under Keenan’s steady gaze. Keenan misunderstands the gesture and he moves his hand from White-Bowne’s shoulder, shoving it self-consciously into his trouser pocket. “Look, I didn’t need to be Captain Bulgakov to work out that you have some serious Daddy issues.” Nerves make Keenan’s tone too jocular and he blinks in frustration at himself as White-Bowne withdraws from him, turns again to face the bleak winter scene out of the window. “That quack probably doesn't know his arse from his elbow anyway,” Keenan finishes, a feeble attempt to smooth things over.

White-Bowne chews on a thumbnail thoughtfully. “On my last day at Eton, my father was the guest speaker. Bigwig MP coming along to blow smoke up the school’s arse for a hefty fee, you know the sort of thing.” Keenan nods his understanding. “He congratulated the school on having achieved such good results again, in spite of the fact that I was among its pupils. Fucking bastard. I swear to God if my mother were still alive she would have knocked him out cold in front of the whole school. She was beautiful, Keenan. Everybody loved her.”

“And your Dad?”

White-Bowne laughs bitterly. He searches for another cigarette, realises the packet’s empty, and tosses the it across the room.“Christ no, he fucking hated her. He tried to make her life miserable but she wasn’t about to let that happen. God, I thought the world had ended when she died. I was only seven, my sister must have been nearly two I suppose. Car crash it was, killed her instantly. Her and the fella she had with her. It was all hushed up, of course, for appearance’s sake. My father didn’t want any _scandal_ hurting his flourishing political career. I wanted to go to the funeral but my father forbade it, said I might cause a scene with all my blubbing.”

“Bloody hell, he sounds like a right charmer. Sorry.”

“He hates me, you see. Always has. It’s because I look like her, I think. Same hair colour, and something about the shape of the mouth.”

“She must have been ugly then,” Keenan quips, nudging his shoulder. His eyes linger on White-Bowne’s bottom lip a fraction longer than they really need to and their shoulders are still touching. 

“Look Keenan, I know you’re knocking about with that pretty nurse and everything, but-” White-Bowne falters, his hand raking through his hair and coming to rest at the back of his neck.

Keenan’s gaze pierces him, holds him fast.“But what?” 

“Look it’s nothing, really. Forget it.” White-Bowne turns away and it is Keenan’s turn to grasp his arm, to hold him steady. “Keenan, really. Just drop it. You’re not...like me, it’s fine. It’s really fine.”

Keenan sighs. “I took a very personal interest in the findings of the Wolfenden report, if that’s what you’re getting at. I dare say your Tory friends will take some convincing though.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” murmurs White-Bowne. “I suspect half the cabinet’s in the closet.” He glances at Keenan, aware that it’s the closest either of them has come to admitting that they’re discussing homosexuality. “My father would certainly oppose it though. Thinks it’s disgusting.” He looks down at his feet, afraid to let Keenan see the hurt on his face. He swallows. “How do you feel about it?” 

“I think Freud’s got it right, to be honest.” Keenan says. White-Bowne gives him a blank look and Keenan shakes his head. “Bloody hell, what do they teach you at posh school?” 

White-Bowne smiles thinly and checks off the list on his fingers. “Warmongering, how to be a Tory, corporate banking, rowing, cricket. Nothing of any use, as far as I can tell. Certainly not the research of radical Austrian psychoanalysts. What the hell sort of secondary school did you go to, anyway? Last time I checked, Freud wasn’t a part of the average grammar school curriculum.”

Keenan smiles sheepishly. “Yeah alright, I get your point. Let’s just say after Alice...well, I needed a distraction. I spent a lot of the summer holidays in the psychology section of my local library. It’s what I’m going to study at University, if the world hasn’t ended by then.”

“You’re a miserable bastard, do you know that.” White-Bowne turns to rummage in the locker nearest him and unearths a packet of cigarettes triumphantly. He notices Keenan’s shocked look and shrugs. “Davies won’t mind,” he grins. “Oh for God’s sake, it’s alright Keenan, I’ll replace them; you can get down from your high horse.” He offers him the packet; Keenan takes one with a smile that is simultaneously self mocking and mischievous, and it takes White-Bowne four attempts to get the lighter to work. “So. Freud,” he prompts, looking at Keenan over the top of his cigarette. 

“I’m being simplistic, but basically he believed that everyone is born bisexual, and that external influences dictate your eventual orientation. But he maintained that everyone experiences some degree of attraction to both sexes.” He looks away. “I know that I have, anyway. Still do. But look, White-Bowne, even if I did fancy you, I’m with Connie at the moment, and that’s a good place for me to be right now. I’m all my Dad’s got left, and I can’t afford to risk ending up in prison while that’s the case. His health’s not that great at the best of times. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

White-Bowne nods, fiddling with the lighter. “Of course I do, Keenan. Eton educated, remember?” he smiles wryly and is relieved when Keenan nods back gratefully. “But just hypothetically, for the sake of my pathetic ego, how attracted to me are you exactly. You know, on a scale of one to ten?”

Keenan stubs out his cigarette, fists White-Bowne’s shirt in his hands and pulls him close. Keenan’s mouth is warm and open against his, and White-Bowne’s hand moves to Keenan’s neck, thumb stroking the pulse point at his ear as Keenan presses against him, his tongue thrusting into White-Bowne’s mouth and subconsciously mimicking his real intent. Keenan moans into his mouth and then abruptly breaks off, flattening his palms against White-Bowne’s chest, head bowed and breathing strained.

“So,” White-Bowne drawls, sensing Keenan’s confusion and attempting to gloss over the incident. “About a nine then?”

Keenan huffs out a laugh and looks at him from under his eyelashes. “No chance. You’re an eight, tops.” White-Bowne kisses him again, softly, and at great length. When he’s done, Keenan smiles, his lips swollen. “Fine. Eight and a half.” He tucks his head into White-Bowne’s shoulder and sighs unhappily. “Oh bloody hell.”

White-Bowne chuckles not unkindly, his hand stroking Keenan’s hair absently. “Bloody hell indeed.”

“I really shouldn't do this. Not now. God I want to, but...oh shit, I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the only Private I’ve got my eye on, Keenan. There’s a chap in One Section who’s desperate for me. Much better looking than you as well, sort of a young Gregory Peck.” White-Bowne’s smile is mocking and Keenan shakes his head. 

“Alright, posh boy,” Keenan says, punching his shoulder. “Let’s not get carried away.” He extricates himself from White-Bowne’s arms and wanders over to the waiting pile of boots. “Come on, Adonis, these boots aren’t going to clean themselves, are they.”

White-Bowne sits alongside Keenan (not even remotely accidentally nudging his shoulder as he does so). “Of course,” he says innocently, picking up the half finished boot he’d abandoned earlier, “ _technically_ I didn’t lose the bet. So I expect to see you on your knees in front of me at some time in the near future.”

Keenan drops his brush with a clatter. “Fucking hell, White-Bowne. Are you trying to kill me.”

“I’d quite like you to blow me first,” White-Bowne says. Keenan aims a shoe brush but misses him by a mile, mostly because he’s laughing so hard he can barely see him.

  
\----------  


  


Private Davies makes his way back to the barracks slowly. He's spent the afternoon racing against Wratten and Rothman on the beach; he won the first two races and lost the third, but only because Wratten tripped him up, the cheating bastard. Davies wants nothing more than to kick off his PT shoes and collapse on his bunk for a well earned smoke. He hears laughter as he reaches the barrack door, so is surprised to find Keenan and White-Bowne are the only ones there. Keenan is sitting cross legged on his bunk, scribbling intently in his note book and chewing on his bottom lip. White-Bowne is lounging beside a pile of gleaming boots, his head tipped back to rest against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Davies can’t help noticing that his face and neck are flushed, and he’s breathing rather more heavily than usual. 

Davies winks at him. “Better tuck your shirt in before the others gets back, White-Bowne,” he says, throwing himself on his bunk and crossing his ankles. “Oi,” he yelps after a moment, breaking the stunned silence. “Who’s nicked my bloody ciggies?”

  


\----------

  


_1967_

Ruth fusses with his tie, pushing his hand away when he tries to finish tying the knot himself. “No, let me do it,” she insists, “You know I’m better at it than you. I don’t know why you’re going to so much trouble though; I thought you were just meeting up with an old friend from your National Service days. There.” She pats his chest once and steps back to admire him. “You look divine, darling.”

He bends and kisses her on the cheek. “Thanks Ruthie. Look, why don’t you come along? It’ll give me someone to talk to on the train, and he’d love to meet you. I’ve told him all about you.”

“Oh dear,” Ruth laughs, picking up her coat and gloves. “Poor fellow. Is this the chap whose father died last year? TB wasn’t it?” He nods, and Ruth reaches out a hand to stroke his face tenderly. “I’d love to come darling, but I promised Daddy I’d have lunch with him today. You know how out of sorts he’s been since he was outvoted on that Bill, especially seeing as you voted against him. He still hasn’t forgiven you, I’m afraid. I do wish I understood what all the fuss is about; it’s 1967, for goodness' sake. Wasn't it about time we changed that silly law?”

He pulls her in for a hug and kisses the top of her head. “It certainly was, Ruthie. It was long overdue.” He breaks the hug, all business-like again. “Right then, if you’re not going to keep me company, then you can at least call me a cab.”

“You’re a cab," she retorts automatically. "But darling, why can’t Eddie drive you to the station?” 

“Not today. Today I am not the Right Honourable Gentleman, MP for Henley, but Private White-Bowne. And he travels to the station by taxi.”

Ruth gives him an appraising look. “What’s got into you this morning? I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time; not since you spent that weekend sailing in Yarmouth. What was that? Two, three months ago? Who did you go with, by the way? You never told me. Is she awfully pretty?”

“I’m going to be late, sis, sorry. I have to leave now if I’m going to catch the train.” He grabs his suitcase and kisses her cheek as he heads for the door. “Wish me luck!”

Ruth stands there staring at the open door for a long time, hands on hips. “Luck with what?” she asks the empty room.

  


\----------

  


“You’re late,” Keenan says, looking up from the essay he’s marking. He opens his briefcase, stuffs the sheaves of paper inside and then stands, falling into step beside him.

“The train was delayed in Doncaster. Lost child or something,” White-Bowne takes in every detail, every little change in Keenan’s appearance. “Your hair’s longer,” he says, resisting the urge to reach over and touch it. “It suits you.”

“Things change in three months, you know. I like your tie,” Keenan says, his smile greedy. “I can’t wait to take it off you.”

“How about we keep it on,” White-Bowne suggests, and Keenan’s delighted laugh causes several passengers on the platform to turn and look.

“We’re causing a scene,” Keenan stage whispers, his hand settling comfortably into White-Bowne’s lower back “Isn’t it scandalous.”

“Aren’t we getting a cab back to your place?” White-Bowne asks as Keenan marches them past the taxi rank. “It’s a bloody long walk to the University campus from here.”

Keenan looks surprised. “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve moved off campus. It’s about time I got my own place, I mean I’m a lecturer now, I can’t live like a student forever. And,” he adds, his voice low, “we’ll have a lot more privacy.”

“Does this mean I can find new ways of getting you to make more noise?” says White-Bowne huskily, and Keenan’s suddenly grateful that his place is only around the corner. He picks up the pace, almost jogging the last few yards, and at first he can’t get the front door key to fit in the lock. 

White-Bowne tries to take the key from him, but Keenan shoulders him aside and then they’re in through the door and into the amber warmth of the hallway. They stumble down the corridor and this time there’s no problem with the key at all and White-Bowne pulls Keenan’s coat off before they’re properly inside the flat. He presses him against the wall and plants open mouthed kisses down his throat as his fingers work at the buttons of Keenan’s jeans. A thigh presses between Keenan’s and they sigh into each other’s mouths at the contact they’ve both been desiring since the moment White-Bowne stepped off the train.

“God I’ve missed this,” White-Bowne says raggedly. “I’ve missed _you_. Come on, let’s go to bed.” He strips off Keenan’s jumper and shucks off his shirt and tie impatiently.

“Don’t you want to eat first? That London to Leeds buffet car’s not up to much, is it.” 

“I can eat any time I like. I haven’t, however, had sex for three months, so show me your barrack, Private Keenan, before I throw you in the brig.”

Keenan raises his eyebrows as he leads White-Bowne into the small, book cluttered bedroom. “Who put you in charge?” he says, the reference to the first day they met a constant shared joke between them. 

White-Bowne kisses him until he can barely stand. “Come on Keenan, we both know you love it. Now on your knees, soldier. You know what to do.”

Keenan rifles in his pockets and finds what he’s looking for. “Here you go, posh boy.” He hands White-Bowne a soft cloth. “Clean your own fucking boots.”

White-Bowne tackles him to the bed and they lie there for a while, laughing and kissing lazily, their hands making equally lazy, unhurried explorations of each other. Keenan is suddenly serious as he gets to his knees, unbuckling the belt on White-Bowne’s trousers. White-Bowne watches him, all traces of laughter gone. “Do you realise this is the first time we’ll be legal,” he says, stroking the fine, dark hair on Keenan’s chest and following its descent breathlessly. 

Keenan smiles, and it’s the smile that White-Bowne loves more than any other. Keenan leans down to kiss him. “Well,” he murmurs, his hand finding White-Bowne’s cock and making him gasp into his mouth. “We’d better make it good then.” 

  


\----------

  


Ruth is walking home from a rather tense but delightfully expensive lunch with her father when she comes to an abrupt stop, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh,” she says, eyes wide, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise. “Oh I _see_.” She laughs to herself in delight, brushes a leaf off the sleeve of her coat, then sets off again, whistling to herself as she goes.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic is well out of my area of expertise on so many levels, not least the era and the circumstances. I did some research, but I’m sure I’ve made mistakes along the way. I can only apologise for them.


End file.
